


Bold

by aimeejessica



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Rumours and Gossip, S2 - S3 ish, Uhm a slap?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimeejessica/pseuds/aimeejessica
Summary: Received a prompt from @Levinson-Mannion on tumblr and I got a little carried away and went off track slightly...quite a bit."I have a prompt! 😂 Early series 3- some of the women in clinic are being rude about Shelagh (saying she is ugly, should of been a nun, Patrick could of had better) and Patrick comforts her- then somehow Bold Shelagh makes a plan to shut them up- Patrick is all to happy to help to get his darling wife’s self-confidence up again 💕🥺"
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Bold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [levinson_mannion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/levinson_mannion/gifts).



The demolition of the Parish Hall had left the Nonnatun’s in limbo. They were relying heavily on the goodwill of the community to keep their weekly ante-natal clinics accessible; unfortunately, it meant there was no permanent foundation to build their clinic to what it had been prior to the demolition.

Shelagh had been proud of her newlywed husband in the aftermath of the bomb the previous Christmas; he had not only managed to set up a new surgery but had also managed to scout out and procure a steady lease on a Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at the Council Community Centre. If you had asked Doctor Turner about the clinic location, he would have told you that Mrs. Turner was being modest and refusing to take any of the credit; she had been an incredible help to her husband.

The first couple of weeks at the Community Centre had been depressing. With the frequent moves of the clinic, women had stopped attending altogether, never knowing where the next clinic would be. This had concerned all involved which led to Chummy to hatching the great plan of inviting Princess Margaret to the Community Centre; and if that hadn’t put their location on the map, not even God could know what would.

Then had come the first Tuesday since royalty had paid a visit. The centre was full of life, and future life to be, nestled safely in their mother’s bellies. All hands were on deck as the clinic was full, to overflowing. Pram’s lined the corridors until they ran out onto the street, and waiting husbands puffed away on their fags in the chilly spring air as they awaited news on mother and baby.

Shelagh was nervous about seeing so many patients; some were returning after a hiatus and others were newly joined. As she caught a quite moment to catch her breath, she had remembered how invisible she had been the night they were evacuated because of the bomb. Very few people had recognised her without the habit she had worn, her true identity protected. The rumour mill had fired suddenly not long after her marriage to the Doctor for if they recognised her, they only recognised her face, her birth name still a mystery to the community.

Shelagh had been assisting her husband set up his new surgery and the maternity home and once one woman had recognised her familiar upswept glasses at close glance, she had made mention to one of her girlfriend’s and before long, the entire Borough of Poplar knew Shelagh Turner was the former Sister Bernadette.

Shelagh sighed, excusing herself from her duties on reception and nipping into the kitchen to prepare herself a cup of tea. As she allowed her tea to steep, she looked through the hatch and into the vast, colourful room bustling with life. Her eyes scanned the women around the room and her mind wandered to a dangerous place. It was not in her nature to seethe, but here she wondered if it was any of the women here with her today that had made _that_ remark in front of young Timothy.

The memory was etched into her mind, replaying vividly as she made an attempt to keep a level head. She shouldn’t give into base passions; _Sister Bernadette wouldn’t have_. But she was no longer the religious Sister, she was her own person with her own feelings.

“Mrs. Turner,” came a familiar voice behind her. “Are you feeling alright?”

Shelagh had jumped, startled at her husband’s voice behind her, trying in vain to suppress her inner turmoil before turning to face him. “Qv uite,” she replied. “How are the patients?” she wanted to deflect any possible follow up to his greeting.

“I shouldn’t compare it to war, but one minute I have one patient, I turn my back, and there’s a new one,” he scrubbed his hands across his aging face, trying catch quick reprieve before returning to his patients.

“Oh,” was all she could muster.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he pushed. “Every time I’ve looked over, you’ve been away with the fairies,”

“It’s no matter, Patrick,” Shelagh brushed him off sternly, turning to pour the rapidly cooling tea; however, instead of consuming it herself, she placed it on the counter in front of her husband and made haste to return to her position on the reception desk.

Doctor Turner had made an attempt to grasp her hand as she had brushed past him, but it was to no avail. He had missed his target and she had slipped away into a professional environment. He was concerned and knew she was a private person, but could she not fully trust him? He doubted himself and against his better judgement, he decided her would enquire about when the pair returned home and had put Timothy to bed.

* * *

With Timothy fed, bathed and tucked in bed for the night, Patrick had returned to the living area, seating himself on the mustard yellow settee. Shelagh had busied herself all evening, preparing dinner and now, finishing the last of the cleaning up. He watched her through the hatch, worried about her behaviour. She hadn’t said a word to him since their return home, speaking only to Timothy and the quite prayer she had spoken before eating her dinner.

Flicking the light off in the kitchen, she proceeded to head to their bathroom; she needed to cleanse herself of the day and hopefully start anew in the morning. She was aware that her husband’s eyes trailed her every move, but she felt as though she couldn’t open up to him. He had been blissfully unaware of the gossip surrounding her departure from the order and her marriage to him, least of all, he didn’t know that his – _their_ – son had witnessed first hand the rumour mongering of the women in Poplar.

 _“Oh, I heard a woman in the sweet shop saying you were doing it all hole-and-corner because you’ve been married before; to Jesus. She said you were like a divorced person.”_ The boy’s words still echoed in her ears as if he were whispering directly into her ear.

“Shelagh, my love,” came his voice. Shelagh wanted to keep walking away, to carry out the tasks she had mentally prepared for her, but the worry in his tone stopped her. “What is going on inside that beautiful mind of yours?”

He had stood from the spot he had just settled into, her being more important to him than getting off his sore feet. She didn’t face him, instead, staring at the stairs that would take her to a place she was able to settle. His large, warm hand rested now on her shoulder, tugging ever so gently so that she would turn to face him. She may be facing his direction, but she kept her eyes down, unwilling to look into his eyes, for if she did, she would have lost what little composure she kept.

She shook her head in response, not wanting to burden him with her insecurity.

The hand that rested on her shoulder now made its way under her chin, gently angling her head up so that he could really get a look at her. He noticed she kept her gaze downcast, and darkened circles were forming, contrasting the bright blue of her eyes. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, a silent way of letting her know that he was here for her.

Shelagh’s hands gripped the fabric at his chest, balling into fists and undoubtedly creating creases in the pressed shirt. Composure was suddenly lost, her head crashing between her fists against him, body heaving with sobs that wracked her body. There was no need for verbal confirmation that she was hurting. Encircling her in his arms, he protected her from whatever it was that plagued her.

The comfort she found with him settled her quickly. Sobs turned to silent tears before turning into a sniffle. Pulling her head back, she finally managed to look him in the eyes and tell him everything.

His heart shattered. He had been so caught up in his love for her that he had never considered the consequences of courting someone who had recently forsaken her vows. When she told him of what their son had overheard, he was enraged. There was no way to know if the woman in the sweet shop recognised Timothy as Timothy _Turner_ , but it did not matter. What mattered was that the gossip had made a dark nest in their lives.

He pulled her back into a tight embrace, pushing his lips against her temple. “I’m so sorry,” Patrick whispered against her. “I was so selfish. I didn’t think.” He was berating himself now. “I am so very sorry, Shelagh,”

It was her turn to console him. “Please, Patrick,” she pulled back, missing the feeling of his lips pressed against her head. “I said yes to marrying you; I was the one who turned my back on the Order,”

“And I should have had the decency to have never pursue you. I corrupted your beautiful, innocent soul and tarnished it, took you away from your home, from your family. If I hadn’t desired you, none of this would have happened; I couldn’t accept it, and I don’t deserve to live.”

Within an instant, Shelagh had gained a surge of confidence and had pulled back, slapping him firmly across his cheek. Her hand stung and she shook it loosely at her side, willing the tingling to go away. Patrick rubbed his cheek, trying to figure out what on earth had just happened.

“Patrick Turner,” her accent thickened considerably, anger boiling in the pit of her stomach, yet she did not yell. “How dare you blame yourself for _my_ choices. I willingly left the Order; I willingly accepted your proposal and I willingly said _‘I do’_. How dare you stand here, with our son just upstairs, and tell me you don’t deserve to live.”

Patrick couldn’t trust his senses. Did she really just slap him? Scold him? He was rendered speechless.

“I don’t ever want to hear you talk like that again,” she told him, guilt now running through her at the sudden outburst she had just had. “I am sorry, Patrick,”

He smiled sadly at her, knowing she needed to vent; perhaps not violently, but she needed an outlet. “Shelagh, my darling, I am sorry,”

She returned his smile with her own, reaching the hand that had only just slapped him, to the same cheek that had just received it. He flinched in a little pain, so she replaced her hand with a light peck with her lips. “No, I am sorry,” she apologised again, pulling away from him. “Please forgive me,”

He moved to capture her lips with his own, eliciting a guttural moan from his wife. “Only we know the truth of the situation,” he told her, letting her know that it was their love, and only their love that mattered.

**\- end**

**Author's Note:**

> A slap is a bold move, right? And there was an attempt for Patrick to comfort Shelagh?  
> And I hate that Tim got dragged into the drama in the CS, but I'm glad they never explored any possibilities of rumours going around after Turnadette happens because I don't actually know if my heart could take poor Shelagh being treated like that.  
> Possibly a little (lot) OOC. 🤦🏽♀️ don't h8 me


End file.
